Burning the Page

There are a lot of different versions of how the future could play out in ebooks, but what I see happening first is what I’ll call the “utility” model, which is kind of like having ebooks available under a monthly Netflix-like subscription. We view electricity and water and TV as utilities, and most of us have to subscribe to them. Some are flat-fee, and some are priced based on how much they’re used.

Right now, when you buy an ebook, you’re making a one-time transaction. But in the utility model, you would pay one monthly or yearly lump sum to get unlimited downloads. Perhaps the books wouldn’t actually be yours; think of them as rentals, available whenever you want to read. The download happens as fast as always, and the ebook is on your e-reader for you to read. Perhaps it expires in a week or two, but you can always download it again. It’s like a faucet. Water comes out of the faucet when you turn it on, and thus ebooks will, as well.

Amazon recently launched such a Netflix for ebooks, but only a very few books from the Amazon catalog are part of it, and you only get one free ebook a month. Would you use Netflix if it only showed nature documentaries, episodes of the 1980s cartoon He-Man, and Mexican wrestling matches? Unless you’re an aficionado of lucha libre, you’ll probably wait until more ebooks are part of the program.

Of course, true book lovers may cling to their print books. For one, books smell nice—although it’s possible that e-reader manufacturers could add the “old book” smell to their products. It’s been shown that volatile chemicals like acetic acid, furfural, and lipid peroxides contribute to that musty smell, and they could easily be swirled into the e-reader’s plastic when it’s being manufactured.

Another reason why book lovers aren’t giving up print books is because the books are not yet available electronically. When Kindle launched, about 90,000 ebooks were available for sale on its website. Even now, at the time of this book’s writing, there are only 1.8 million Kindle ebooks. This may sound like a lot, but it’s chump change compared to the 35 million books in print. Early adopters like CEOs and former presidents and astronauts would have no problem buying e-readers despite the limited content selection, but mainstream readers demand more content selection.

To get even more books digitized, I think a company could make a device the size of a toaster oven into which you could put a book, a device that would work on books of most sizes. The device would page quickly through the book, take a picture of each page, and upload the pages to the cloud. The toasters would have to be intelligent enough to correct for poor lighting conditions and the way the words get elongated near the break between pages. If you don’t believe me, try placing a book on a photocopier and see what you get. See how the words get distorted and unreadable near the spine.

I imagine it would be called the “ebook toaster.” As far as gadgets go, the ebook toaster would be kind of dangerous. A warning label on it would recommend that it be used by people age 18 and older. Why? The two blades inside the toaster would be sharp enough to slice off the spine of a book. And just as a regular toaster has a tray to catch the breadcrumbs from your bagels or pizzas, the ebook toaster would have a tray to catch the spine that’s been snipped. If books could bleed, this tray would catch the blood.

Mechanical robot arms would unfurl themselves within the toaster and lift each page, one at a time. An arrangement of mirrors and cameras would carefully take pictures of each page. When that process is done, you would either put a rubber band around the remaining pages to keep the print book, or you’d dispose of it. As long as your ebook toaster is connected to your home’s Wi-Fi network, you would get your ebook back in about an hour. It would show up on your e-reader’s home screen, ready to read, with no crumbs or burnt crusts.

When the ebook toaster finished its job, the ebook would be reassembled in a reflowable format from each of the original book’s pages. This would allow you to convert your library of print books to digital. Perhaps it would take a half hour per book, but once it was done, the process would be like ripping a CD into MP3 files. You’d have the ebook files accessible anytime, anywhere, regardless of device. In 2003, I spent a few months slowly inserting all my CDs into my computer to gradually digitize my music collection, and now I have those music files forever.

Perhaps instead of doing this at home with an ebook toaster, you’d hire a company to do the conversion for you. Readers like you and me aren’t going to sign contracts with conversion houses in India or the Philippines to convert our personal libraries, book by book. But that’s okay. Companies will come into existence to do this for you, at a cost. I think that in a few years, you’ll be able to mail boxes of your print books to conversion facilities that will manage the print-to-digital conversion and send you back files in the format of your choice. Or maybe you’ll see larger versions of the ebook toasters at the mall.

You may see kiosks in the mall where you can bring your books and get them converted. You can watch while they do it, or come back after you’ve gotten a pretzel from the food court, and then collect your digital books on your flash drive. You’ll see these kiosks in malls, and probably small stores too, where retail space is cheap enough. They’ll be a lot like eBay shipping centers where you go to get your goods packaged and mailed, a service that you’re happy to pay a small surcharge for, to save yourself the hassle.

It will be a lot like going to the mechanic to get the tires on your car changed, except that now you will have newer, better tires. And yes, you’ll still have to pay a handling fee to dispose of the old tires or, in this case, your print books. The conversion machines will likely use what’s called destructive scanning, meaning that the book has to be destroyed to be converted. This is what most major publishers do when they have a print book that they want to convert into digital format.

When I’ve traveled to destructive scanning facilities, I’ve seen machines that seem like they belong in a slaughterhouse, machines with whirling knives that slice the spine straight off the back of the book. Sometimes the process is more manual and less sophisticated. It may be a team of women in India sitting at a long table, holding razor blades, and doing the same work, but much more cheaply.

I think you’ll see such a process at the mall, where nimble-fingered teens wield razor blades to scrape the spines from your book so that they can quickly scan each individual page. The book will be destroyed in the process, but the process will be painless for you—unless you had any emotional attachment to the book. It will be like a visit to LensCrafters, where you get your new glasses in about an hour.

You can easily imagine the shady file-sharing markets that might emerge as people learn that they can swap these scanned-in files with one another. Or maybe people will go to bookstores with these toaster-sized devices under their trench coats and scan in this week’s bestsellers. But in a positive sense, I think this type of conversion will help the used ebook market grow, making that eventuality turn into an inevitability. Maybe with this kind of device, legitimate used ebook stores will emerge. Maybe used ebooks can be resold once or twice before they spontaneously combust like Maxwell Smart’s secret messages.

Books are important, so let the consumers have them, used or otherwise. Publishers should get a fair price, as should authors and any middlemen like retailers, without whom the entire ecosystem would fail. Likewise, I think libraries can benefit. There might even be a company whose sole purpose would be to allow libraries to exchange digital copies of one another’s scanned books so that they don’t have to rescan each book at each library.

The value of books will change, of course, and perhaps for the better. Right now, books that are esoteric and hard to find are at a premium because there are few print copies of them. But once a book is digitized, with endless amounts of secure backups, there’s no reason why prices shouldn’t drop. And prices should follow a new paradigm: the price of a book should be inversely proportional to its popularity.

We see this now with out-of-print books from before 1923. When digitized, they’re commonly free. They’re part of the public domain. There are older books that are not part of the public domain, not yet, and when they’re digitized, they’ll be of interest to historians and scholars and anyone who happens to follow links to them in a possible Facebook for Books. The cost of these older books should be damn cheap, almost zero.

Conversely, the most popular books of the day—like those on The New York Times bestseller list—should be at a premium, in keeping with the marketing investment that the publishers spent to promote them and create consumer demand. But a book that was on The New York Times list five years ago is rarely worth the same as what’s on the list this week. We see the decay in price of new titles, but older, rarer books are still inflated in price because they haven’t been digitized.

There’s a chilling reversal, though, by which retailers might become the new libraries.

This is a scary mind shift, but it is in keeping with the currents of our culture as we commoditize every aspect of our lives. Given these currents, it makes sense that retailers will assume stewardship of our culture. Libraries once held all of the world’s knowledge, but, with rare exceptions, there is no longer any library on the planet with a larger collection than the books currently held by the likes of Amazon or Google or Barnes & Noble. Information is available, but it’s no longer freely available.

This is a future that I don’t entirely welcome for philosophical reasons, but it does seem likely. Retailers might become the new libraries. Perhaps this happens first by publishers acquiring one another so that they can lobby for favorable ebook terms and discounts with retailers. Indeed, we’re already seeing this, with the recent merger between Random House and Penguin. To be competitive, smaller publishers may feel pressure to acquire other publishers or merge with them so that, as a bloc, they can negotiate with the retailers.

Eventually, though, what’s to stop a company like Amazon from acquiring one of these large publisher conglomerates? Apple might then have to retaliate and buy another mega-publisher. Retailers will try to acquire publishers’ vast content holdings in a bid to become the predominant purveyor of the written word—whether in book form, magazine form, or pamphlet form.

And once this future is played out, then what happens? Do the retailers themselves converge and consolidate, like banks did in the 1990s? Are they acquired by the governments, in response to the monopolization of the written word or because of fears that retailers will hijack the language itself and censor it? Does Apple send emissaries out to all the state libraries of the world and license digital rights to their content?

I can’t tell you. My crystal ball is dark regarding this matter. When I first joined Amazon, they gave me a Magic 8 Ball. They gave them to all new employees at the time. When I shake my Amazon-issued Magic 8 Ball, this time it says, “Ask Again Later.” For now anyway, the future is as cloudy and as dark as a busted eInk screen.

Only one thing is certain: content was, and is, still king.

Clearly, as a culture, we’re smitten with the digital. Ebooks make sense for so many reasons. But what will happen to print books in the years ahead?

As more and more people buy ebooks, they’ll start to preferentially buy ebooks, because the experience is so “sticky” and because the more digital books you have, the more you gain from the network effects of searching and indexing, something that works poorly in print books.

Eventually, there will be a tipping point at which the benefits of digital outweigh print, and there will be a mass shift from print to digital. Nobody in the book industry is sure exactly where the tipping point is for selection. It may be that Amazon or Apple needs to have 95 percent digital coverage of all the books in print before people stampede to ebooks.

But for a time, people will have libraries that are part digital, part print. Those of us who see what’s coming realize that as more consumers start buying ebooks, they’re going to look at their personal libraries of print books and try to figure out what to do with them, since they’re becoming obsolete.

The obvious thing to do is to sell them.

You’re going to see a lot more used book sales in the next ten years than ever before. People are going to start dumping their print books to get whatever prices they can from them, simply because it’s more convenient to go digital. And let me tell you, print books are not convenient. I have four thousand of them, which means that every time I move into a new house, I have to box them up and haul them around, something my back may not be able to handle one day! So I’ve started selling them.

I’ve sold more than a thousand of my print books already on Amazon’s used book marketplace. It’s simple to do, especially if you have a computer with a video camera on it. The video camera can scan in the bar codes on the back of the books through the same process that retail stores use to scan products with a laser at checkout. Software like Delicious Library automates a lot of this, and you can often get a free membership to Amazon’s Seller Central that lets you sell your used books. You don’t have to work at Amazon like I did to get these benefits!

There’s actually a thriving subculture of people armed with laptops who go to used bookstores, scan in the bar codes with their video cameras, and see if any of the books are worth enough to buy used from the bookstore. If so, they resell the book online at a higher price. You’ll see more of this in the years ahead, as well as better tools on smartphones to allow non-experts to make a living at this.

I think we’re going to see a huge number of used book sales in the next five years as digital books go more mainstream. We may have a glut of books, in fact. If you’re like me and you think that the moldering, forlorn used books for sale on a scrappy rack outside a bookstore are sad, then wait until you see how much sadder it will get for printed books.

Books that can fetch ten to twenty dollars today in used condition will be lucky to sell for ten to twenty cents in a few years, simply because the market for print books will be flooded and no one will need them anymore. A few book collectors will snap up the choicest pickings offered for sale, but the great majority won’t get sold, even at a penny each, because the buyers simply won’t exist in great enough numbers. It will be a buyer’s market. Unsold books will get donated to libraries, but even libraries don’t have infinite amounts of space.

With this glut of used books will come a perceived cheapening of books. Our culture still perceives print books as precious, even in the age of mass production. Books are still seen as status symbols, after all. The wealthy often have finely apportioned libraries in their mansions (even if they’re often just decorative).

But what will our culture be like when people start dumping their books because they simply can’t sell them? You’ll first see piles of unsold books outside the hipster neighborhoods in New York and San Francisco; then you’ll see piles of books by the trash on Sunday night for anyone to take. Then you’ll see community events in other cities where people get together on weekends and swap books.

If there are 119 million readers in the United States, and every reader has an average of one hundred books, and half of these will be eliminated over the next ten years as people go digital, about six billion books will need to be disposed of in some way or another. That’s around four billion tons, or the equivalent of ten years of trash. It all has to end up somewhere.

I think you’ll see a strange hybrid between dump and library—perhaps a section of the dump for books that’s cordoned off from the trash, a section run by profiteers or book-loving volunteers who will sell books by the pound or perhaps the truckload. What will the books be used for? Perhaps firewood or fuel.

As books move to digital and fewer are printed, fewer print books will be sold, which will hasten the decline of bookstores. Physical brick-and-mortar bookstores are already struggling to compete with online giants like Amazon or Walmart when it comes to price and selection, and the move to digital just hastens the already sad decline.

Most retail bookstores haven’t made the transition to the new digital culture. Even in university towns, the kinds of places where people usually read more, bookstores are closing their doors. Conventional bookstores that have focused on offering new books will fold, hit with the double whammy of fewer books being printed and the glut of used books on the market.

Publishers often complain that digital books are forcing their hardcovers to die, and I think they’re right. The hardcover book is a print artifact, a technique publishers discovered that would let them milk the same stone for blood not just once, but twice. They could sell a new book at a more expensive price point to early adopters and then release a cheaper version to the mainstream months later.

Digital books don’t allow this. They help democratize content. On the plus side, this means readers can—and often expect to—pay low prices for premium content, without hemorrhaging money into a hardcover edition. But on the minus side, a revenue source for publishers is falling by the wayside, which means it’s harder for them to take gambles on new content.

A publisher often has a portfolio of books, much like your own investment portfolio. Some titles are low-risk but low-sales, like bonds, while others are likely to be high-risk and high-return, like stocks. The ebook revolution may be making publishers think twice before taking on the risk of promoting a new author. But then again, perhaps this financial pressure will force publishers to take different risks in the digital space, to innovate new product experiences.

And this is healthy, even though some publishers will have to tighten their belts and others may fold by taking ill-timed risks that are too bold. It’s healthy because the culture of reading itself is changing.

You used to be able to go to any college town, hang out in the college coffeehouse, and see people reading at their tables. But now it’s different, which should be no surprise to you if you’re a college student or the parent of one. And believe me, I know—every time I traveled on Amazon business to visit publishers, I would stop at a college town and check out the campus bookstore and coffeehouse.

I would come to the coffeehouse expecting revolution, expecting to see people reading The Communist Manifesto or at least sci-fi novels, but now I see people sitting at their laptops reading Facebook or watching YouTube. Though there’s jazzy music on the coffeehouse radio, everyone is listening to his or her computer on earbuds. Books are at best decorations in the coffee-shop windows, encrustations of a former function that coffeehouses no longer serve.

In a broader sense, that’s true of books in our culture. Books are becoming decorations. Whither the printed book? Indeed, it has withered. There are cobwebs in the corner of the coffeehouse and spooks like me who sit on the paisley couches, watching people alone at their tables on Facebook. Reading was never really a social experience, so I’m not alarmed by this. In fact, I’m happy, because I know that as digital books grow, more and more people will start reading books again in coffee shops—and I mean actual reading, not the indiscriminate snacking of bits and bites from the internet.

Of course, the downside of this is that people may start to expect digital books to behave like the internet, like a repository of content that you can snack on. Because it’s true that, as you surf the internet, you’re snacking all day instead of eating a full meal. A book is a full meal, and like any meal, you have to be willing to spend time preparing it and savoring it. True, it takes time to read a book, and it doesn’t matter whether the book is physical or digital. The investment of time it takes to read and consume a book will remain constant regardless of the book’s format.

I remember that in Woody Allen’s movie Sleeper there was a machine called the Orgasmatron that people went into just to have orgasms. That’s it—no sex required, no foreplay, no nothing. Until someone invents an Orgasmatron for books, where you get all the information you need in an instant, you’ll still have to invest time in the experience of reading.

Moving beyond books, it’s a small step from the written word to images themselves and a vast project to digitize all the art in the world’s museums, whether it’s boxed up in storage or hung up in plain sight on the walls. Humanity is smitten with the digital, and there are missionaries who will see to it—partly because of profit and partly because of evangelical fervor—that all these analog artifacts are digitized as hi-fi reproductions of the originals, and they’ll be happy to sell them to you.

Is it too futuristic to imagine hanging an iPad in a gilt, rococo frame on your living room wall and seeing a high-quality selection from the Metropolitan Museum of Art displayed on it, pictures rotating every ten minutes? We can already display family pictures from our own digital photo albums, so why not display world-class art in our living rooms as well?

I think this is highly likely. In fact, the mass digitization of our culture could in some ways be considered part of a greater spiritual project. This wholesale conversion of the analog into the digital, of base “gold” into even more ethereal electrons, could be seen as part of a project that started centuries ago. It could be seen as part of humanity’s dream of infusing all of matter with soul, a dream at once ancient and yet science-fictional.

After all, this is where the Web 3.0 movement itself is going. Your clothes will be computational devices. Your e-reader will talk to your smartphone and your scale and your coffee machine, and they’ll all keep tabs on you, sense your mood, and recommend things for you to do or read or buy. Who would have thought that this dream of infusing the inanimate with the animate, of matter with soul, would ultimately benefit advertisers the most?

Bookmark: Altered Books

There were once so many passenger pigeons in America that their flocks darkened the skies for hours at a time as millions flew overhead. Ranging from the East Coast to the Rockies, they were a highly successful species of bird. Their fossils have been found as far back in time as the Pleistocene period, the same era that saw saber-toothed tigers ranging through what’s now Los Angeles, or wooly mammoths roaming through Chicago, or giant ground sloths, ten feet tall, loping through what would become Las Vegas.

That we had giant sloths in America surprises me. That all the passenger pigeons died out stuns me simply because of the reason for their extinction. They were killed for their meat, and generations of Americans knew no other meat than pigeon meat. Tiny pigeon sausages. Pigeon pies. In the span of about a hundred years, one of the most common American birds was gradually exterminated.

Likewise, books once had a glorious range. Books roamed the world. They traveled in luggage on the Pan-Am flights of the 1950s, were carried in purses and satchels on trans-Atlantic schooners, were carried by the Pony Express across the continent, and were often an important part of dowries of noblewomen. But now the range of books has shrunk, like the range of passenger pigeons, although not yet as terminally.

You can still find books on dusty ornamental bookshelves in some hotel lobbies. You can find them in the lost-and-found bins of large train stations and on sun-bleached shelves at beach resorts. You can still find thriving populations of books at college bookstores and libraries. Somewhat surprisingly, you can also find books in prison libraries, which boast higher circulation rates than almost any other kind of library.

But like passenger pigeons, like coyotes, like black bears, and like ancient coelacanths—dinosaur fish from millions of years ago that only live off two islands in the Indian Ocean—books inhabit a restricted range when compared to how prolific they were in their former glory days.

In ecological terms, books are threatened with extinction.

Books aren’t capable of reproducing in the wild or in captivity, although more and more book titles are published every year. But fewer physical books are being sold with every passing year, even if there are more titles to choose from. Book sales overall are tipping toward digital now.

Books are threatened with extinction, but like the smartest of animals in the wild, they’re adapting. They’re evolving instead into ebooks.

It’s almost contradictory for me to be a futurist of books. It’s like being a futurist of telegraphs or a futurist of rotary phones, because the death knell for print books has, in my opinion, sounded. As printed artifacts, books share a sacred reliquary along with eight-track tapes, gramophones, and LaserDiscs. But print books haven’t died yet, and they’re not going to go gently into the night.

In the upscale home décor stores of the future—and by future, I mean ten years from now—tucked in among the rugs and tapestries and oversized urns and stuffed animal heads, you’ll start to find books sold as decorative items. They might be artistically bound with strips of copper. They might have keyholes from doors installed onto their spines. They might be artfully aged and lacquered. Perhaps they’ll be set up on pedestals, or a small ceramic pigeon will be perched on the book. But you’ll start to see books altered, turned into art objects.

In a trip today to my local art town, I saw three stores that sold these types of altered books. Some of the books were turned into pulp and molded into trees, with smaller books hanging from them as fruits would. I saw pages from a book carefully razor-bladed out with an X-Acto knife and painted to show scenes of children playing in a field.

What does it say about us as a culture that we’re turning books into art?

To me, it says we’re aware of the passing of books, and we’re mournful. We feel pent-up nostalgia for books. We’re aware of a genuine loss, one that we can only express with X-Acto knives and spray cans of lacquer and glitter. We’re altering books, making them into art and ennobling them with ideas that are too hard to put into words. We’re transforming humdrum leather-bound books that were formerly commodities into artistic statements.

We’re aware somehow that art will last longer than commodities, and our artists are salvaging some books in a repurposed form, in the hope that some of them will last through the ages. Because let’s be honest: do you really think the major libraries are going to hold on to all of their print books in an age of cheap terabyte hard drives? Do you really think the Library of Congress is going to digitize its book collection and then keep all the print books once they’re digitized? They won’t, and how can they? There’s simply too much material to store.

So there’s going to be a massive die-off of print books. They’re not emigrating, flying overseas with the sound of pigeon flutter as their pages loft them through the sky. Books are dying. Future archaeologists will speak of the Gutenberg Era and the sharp discontinuity of our time, characterized by a major extinction event that has left no print books in the fossil records.

The artwork of Georgia O’Keefe often depicts bleached skulls on a desert landscape. When artists get around to painting the end of the Gutenberg Era, they’ll perhaps paint the bleached books left behind on the literary landscape.

I think highly of printed books, but I already think of them as bone-white, bleached, inert, and dead—unlike ebooks, which seem to sparkle with electricity and wonder. I look at my walls of printed and bound books like they’re all polished skulls in a curio cabinet. Just as I’m achingly sad to see them go, I’m also excited at moving onward into the future, into the digital.

But what about you? Have you come to terms with the death of printed books? Have you grieved, in your way? Care to share your thoughts or help others through the mourning process?